


This is the End

by spatialsoloist



Category: Ender's Game - Orson Scott Card, Multi-Fandom, Sherlock (TV), Star Trek
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Future, Angst, Asa Butterfield as Ender, Crossover, Headcanon, M/M, Time Travel, have you seen the boy's eyes, overall badass consulting family, they are fantastic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:18:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spatialsoloist/pseuds/spatialsoloist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were strangers, then flat mates, and then lovers. They were the consulting detective, the army doctor, and then they were joined by a son, Hamish Watson-Holmes. Their life was warm, comfortable and complete— until the tragic, abrupt end.</p><p>But it’s not really the end, is it?</p><p>In which one man would willingly die for his love; one man would wait 300 years to bring him back, and a son who would do anything to save his parents.</p><p>(Chapter covers created by Voodooling)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I came up with this with my Senpai after we watched Star Trek together for her birthday and saw the trailer for the Ender's Game movie. And I pointed out that Asa Butterfield (Ender Wiggin) basically had Benedict Cumberbatch eyes and then this massive story was born.
> 
> This is where John and Sherlock adopt Hamish, as personified by Asa Butterfield, and then everything continues from there.

 

 

 

 

  


_This is the end_

_Hold your breath and count to ten_

_Feel the earth move and then_

_Feel my heart burst again_

* * *

“Daaaaaad.”

“Mphm.”

“Daaaaad? Papa, wake up.”

“Ugh, what?”

“It’s 9:15, Papa,” a young boy’s voice said softly next to John. “I made breakfast. You’re supposed to be down at the Scotland Yard today in half an hour, you promised Uncle Greg.”

The moment the words registered in John’s mind, his eyes flew open in shock as Sherlock hurtled upright on the bed, cussing loudly. Thirteen year old Hamish watched his parents trip and fall out of bed in a graceless pile of limbs, innocent as can be.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to swear in front of me, Papa.”

“ _God damn it_ , I knew something was off yesterday night but I was obviously too distracted by my experiment, _why_ I put this kind of stress upon myself I’ll never know—”

“Hamish, Hamish, son, why don’t you step out of the room for a minute or so, your Papa and I need to get dressed—”

“—and _why_ can’t any of the cops around here just do their job I practically handed them the clues to the kidnapping case last week and if Lestrade thinks I’m going to face those arsed-faced reporters again—”

John groaned as he gently steered his son out of the bedroom and into the hall. “We’ll be out in a minute, Hamish, go play with your father’s chemistry set for a minute, okay?”

Hamish brightened immediately. “Okay!” he cried, practically leaping over the sofa and into the kitchen where most of Sherlock’s experiments were, regretfully, still kept despite the flood of complaints launched by John and Mrs. Hudson.

“Told you you’d sleep in if you stayed up all night dissecting that liver,” John hissed, slamming the bedroom door shut as he yanked on his bathrobe. Sherlock snorted, stripping off his nightshirt in a smooth motion.

“I would’ve woken up on time if you hadn’t insisted on ambushing me the minute I walked into the bedroom and coercing me into marathon sex after I finished up my conclusions.”

“ _Coerced?_ You damn liar, you enjoyed every minute of it.”

Sherlock paused in the middle of doing up his buttons, apparently thinking it over. “You’re right,” he said, straightening up. “I did enjoy it.”

John’s face turned red instantly. “Good,” he said heatedly, throwing on a jumper he’d gotten from Molly two Christmases ago. “Now hurry up, we’re plenty late.”

“I think we should forgo the trip down to the station and continue what we started yesterday night,” Sherlock continued, fixing his eyes purposefully on John’s rear.

“Not on your life, Sherlock. You promised Lestrade—”

“Oh, he can wait just this once, can’t he? If I recall you especially enjoy a quick, messy blow job right after you’ve gotten up, or did your tastes change already—”

“ _Sherlock!_ ”

“Fine,” Sherlock huffed, yanking on his fitted trousers and strolling towards the door with his socks in hand. “I want breakfast now.”

But John’s hand suddenly stretched out, catching his partner’s elbow, an impish smile on his face. “I do enjoy a quickie in the morning, you know, but I hear defacing the Yard’s bathrooms are entertaining as well…”

Sherlock’s grin was so sharp it could cut diamonds. He leaned down and gave John a quick peck on the lips, humming thoughtfully. “Intriguing. Especially since the forensics labs are located right next to it, perhaps a certain trout might wander in— I wonder how scarring it would be for Anderson to catch us doing it in a stall right next to his office—”

“Oh shut up and go grab your coffee,” John cried, shoving Sherlock out the door and slamming it shut once more. Laughing to himself, the dark haired man strolled briskly into the kitchen where Hamish was kneeling on one of the chairs, peering through a magnifying glass at an eyeball suspended in light blue liquid. On the stove there were two plates of pancakes, one with maple syrup poured over it and the other with wasabi sauce lumped on top. Sherlock felt the corner of his mouth quirk in satisfaction as he ruffled his son’s hair fondly.

“Glad you still remember what your father likes on his pancakes,” he chuckled, picking up the plate with the wasabi. Hamish didn’t look up from the eyeball, but he was smiling.

“I never forget,” he said. “I’ve been building up my mind cabin for a bit now; d’you think I can upgrade to a house yet?”

“Maybe,” Sherlock mused as John came crashing through the doorway as he tried to buckle up his belt at the same time.

“Oh dear, we’re late, we’re very late, there isn’t even time to get the cab—”

“Relax, John, it’s a beautiful day out!” Sherlock cried, spearing a bit of pancake with his fork. “We should actually walk over to the yard, it’s a shame to waste the sun.”

John gave him a dirty look as he sloshed a mug of coffee around, sending most of it into the sink. “Very funny, Sherlock, sometimes I’m not sure if I’m the consulting detective or you are.”

“Hardly. You don’t have the brains of patience for that kind of thing.”

“Damn straight I’m impatient.”

“Thought you didn’t want us swearing in front of Hamish?”

“I didn’t, and I still don’t. Hamish, cover your ears, ‘cause I’m about to give you Papa a good earful once I’m done drinking my brew.”

Hamish laughed, putting the magnifying glass down. “Okay, dad. Whatever you say. The walls aren’t very thick around here anyway.”

John choked on the coffee, and Sherlock burst into laughter.

“Right,” the shorter man sighed, wiping at his jumper. “The last time we talk or imply sex in this flat is over my cold, dead body. We’re leaving, Hamish, what are you going to be up to today?”

“I promised Mrs. Hudson I’d help her with her cookies at noon,” Hamish replied, hopping off the chair. “Then I’m headed to the library with Diane and James until eight.”

“We’ll probably be back by then,” Sherlock mused, yanking his scarf around his neck. “Want Mycroft to give you a lift?”

“No, it’s okay, I can walk back,” Hamish smiled, watching his fathers rush out the door. “Bye, dad. Papa.”

John swooped down and gave him a quick kiss on the forehead. “Be good, Hamish.”

“I will.”

Sherlock brushed past, slipping several bills into his son’s pocket with a smooth wink. “Don’t spend too much time flirting, young man.”

“Papa!”

Sherlock laughed manically he and John plodded down the stairs two at a time before bursting out onto the street.

“ _Must_ you always embarrass him like that? I mean, he’s just getting into that age where boys get angsty over nothing and you keep prodding him all the time…”

“Oh, pish, he’ll be alright. You’re just a worrier.”

“I have common sense!”

“That you have, John, that you have…”

They arrived at the station fifteen minutes later than the promised time. Lestrade had fixed them with a glare as Sherlock strolled in; beaming sarcastically at a group of new trainees filing out, but it was without heat. The rest of the afternoon passed without anything special happening, though the promised bathroom sex didn’t end up happening due to Sherlock engaging in a premature argument with Sergeant Donovan that John had to dissolve like an angry hen; then, they’d left for a quick bite down the block at an old café that Sherlock favoured for their soft and chewy raisin twists.

It was roughly 1 pm when they crossed the street together, intent on heading back to the station for one final meeting with Lestrade over the alleged break-in case Sherlock had stuck his nose into, when the alarms rang.

“What the—” John spluttered, wincing at the volume, and then the gunshots started.

Screams erupted around them as pedestrians on the sidewalk scattered. Sherlock grabbed John tightly by the arm and dragged him away from the building next to them: the bank.

“Outta the way! Get down and outta our way now!”

Eight figures clad in grey outfits and ski masks came clambering down the front steps, four carrying stuffed duffle bags and the other four wielding semi-automatic rifles. John swore under his breath and stumbled on the uneven sidewalk, nearly dragging Sherlock down with him.

“ _Jesus_ , that’s insane—”

“I’m calling Lestrade right now, this is definitely in his division—”

“Hey!”

John jerked his head up, startled, as one of the gun wielding robbers ran down towards them.

“Who’re you callin’, the coppers? Put that phone down you little do-gooder twat—”

“Easy!” John hollered, leaping up to block the robber’s path. “Look, we’re just passing through—”

“Put the damn phone down!” the robber shouted, lifting the gun. His partners were yelling too, but John didn’t hear a word they said. Sherlock instantly held the phone away from him, lifting his own hand placatingly.

“I’m not calling anybody, now put down your gun—”

“Don’t you shout at me—!”

“Easy!” John hissed, raising his own hands, heart pounding in his chest. He took a step back, bumping into Sherlock’s chest and forcing the detective back another few steps as well. The gunman wavered, finger shaking on the trigger as they continued to back away.

“John, this is not how I envisioned our afternoon to be…”

“Not exactly my cup of tea either,” John muttered back.

“Stay back,” the gunman called, moving up the stairs as the other robbers fled towards a van parked down the street. “Don’t come any closer.”

“Trust me,” John sighed, “We don’t want to be.”

Then, from around the corner, the sounds of sirens pierced through the air as no less than five police cars came skidding onto the curb.

“No—” Sherlock began.

“Wait—” John called, and the gunman jumped as he pulled the trigger.

The sounds of the gunshots were deafening at such a close range as John crumpled, collapsing onto the sidewalk. Blood pooled out from his chest instantly, creeping across the concrete at a terrifying pace. There was an animalistic roar echoing in his brain, rattling his skull, and it took Sherlock a minute before he realized that he was the one making the sound. He dropped to his knees, not caring about where or what the gunner did next, because this was John lying on the ground, John who wasn’t breathing, John who had six bullet holes in his chest and whose blood had turned the cream coloured jumper crimson and wet.

 _His_ John, pale and unmoving on the ground, far too similar to the corpses in the morgue to be anything less than terrifying.

“John, John no, John please, wake up, wake up, not like this, John! John!”

His hands were red and the blood wouldn’t stop flowing.

“John! Open your eyes John! I know you can hear me!”

He couldn’t even feel the heart beating.

“Please! John! John! JOHN!”

* * *

_For this is the end_

_I've drowned and dreamt this moment_

_So overdue I owe them_

_Swept away, I'm stolen_

_Let the sky fall  
_

_When it crumbles  
_

_We will stand tall_

_Face it all together  
_

_At skyfall  
_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mandatory music inspiration: MS MR- Fantasy
> 
> Also: Zygomatic arch— the cheekbone area. Thanks Sam (Voodooling) for the terminology ◕ ◡ ◕

  


A _coma_ , they said.

“John Watson is in a coma, Mr. Holmes. I’m very sorry.”

* * *

co·ma  

/ˈkōmə/

* * *

“Sir, please, you can’t walk in at the moment—”

“Move.”

“Sir, Mr. Watson is being transferred at the moment, it’s very risky—”

“I said move. I’m not going to repeat myself again.”

* * *

Noun

  1. A state of deep unconsciousness that lasts for a prolonged or indefinite period, caused especially by severe injury or illness.



See also: _Injury_.

Noun

Synonyms: harm – hurt – damage – wound – detriment – lesion

* * *

“Sir, stop! You can’t enter that room!”

“Of course I know I can’t enter that room; there were six different decontamination procedural signs plastered all over the walls and even if it weren’t for those I’ve been to a hospital enough to familiarize myself with all the inner workings of the place. I’m not sure if you can tell but at the moment I am emotionally compromised, or experiencing an emotional crisis, so unless you’d really like to stick around and see what will happen to your nose and zygomatic arch when my fist connects with your face I suggest you step away before I permanently disfigure you for life. _Have. I. Made. Myself. Clear._ ”

The nurse had already taken several steps back, clipboard held meekly out in an attempt to keep some form of barrier between him and Sherlock. He made a weak, jerky nod before muttering something about the doctor arriving shortly and then vanished down the hall, leaving behind nothing but the muffled sounds of hospital equipment and noises of other patrons roaming around the building.

* * *

Emotional- e•mo•tion•al

  1. Pertaining to or involving the emotions.



Compromised- _com·pro·mise_ (Verb)

  1. Weaken (a reputation or principle) by accepting standards that are lower than is desirable.



* * *

In that moment, loathe he was to admit it, Sherlock Holmes felt nothing but helplessness at the sight of his partner lying motionless on the white sheets, kept alive by nothing other than machines, and already so far out of Sherlock’s desperate reach.

* * *

_Three months later_

If Greg Lestrade was surprised that Hamish opened the door before he’d even knocked, the Detective Inspector didn’t show it. Instead, he simply held up an old pot with tin foil covering the top— lasagna, by the smell of it— and Hamish accepted it with a quiet thank you. Lestrade ran a hand over his face, his exhaustion evident, and asked the same question he’d ask every time he came over now.

“Is your father home?”

And Hamish nodded, like he always did, his once cheerful and joyful personality snuffed out like a dying flame. It was a painful thing to witness. Lestrade carefully made his way into the cluttered living room of 221 B, where shoes wouldn’t be taken off because the floor probably wasn’t safe to walk across in socks, ruined experiments would be carefully nudged aside, and then the DI would grab a kitchen stool to sit on because the armchair opposite of Sherlock’s hadn’t been occupied since the day John was shot. The dark haired man was sitting with his legs dangling off the side of his chair, staring at the wall. A bit of light stubble lined his jaw and the dark circles under his eyes were reaching a critical stage, but Sherlock’s eyes itself were bright and alert, even if they weren’t trained on anything in particular at the moment.

Lestrade reached out and inspected an overflowing ashtray the coffee table with a frown on his face. “Thought you only did nicotine patches, Sherlock. Don’t tell me you’ve been smoking indoors.”

Sherlock snorted, rolling his eyes. The entire flat practically stunk of tobacco; everybody could smell it. Lestrade’s jaw tightened.

“When was the last time you ate?”

“Digestion slows your thinking,” Sherlock replied immediately, his voice slightly hoarse from lack of use. “There’s no need for food.”

“You’re not the only person who needs to eat here, you know,” Lestrade said darkly, crossing his arms. “How long are you going to sit here like an act like a child?”

“Go bother someone your own size,” Sherlock snapped, shuffling in his seat so that he could sit upright. His expression was cold and dangerous, his hands squeezing the armrests of his chair.

“And you need to pull yourself together,” Lestrade said lowly, squaring his shoulders. “You are a grown man; you’ve got responsibilities and duties to attend to—”

“ _Responsibilities and duties to attend to_ ,” Sherlock mimicked irritably. “If you haven’t noticed already, Lestrade, I hardly ever listen to you on your best day, so whatever makes you think I’d care about what you have to say now?”

Lestrade bristled and Hamish shivered involuntarily, moving back into the shadows of the doorway. The air was practically crackling with the tension between the two men, both of whom were refusing to back down. Normally there’d be a third party who was an expert at dissolving the arguments between the two, and now John’s absence was more pronounced than ever before in the stifling atmosphere.

“I’m trying to help you, Sherlock.”

“I don’t need your bloody _help_.” Sherlock’s face screwed up with distaste at the word, as though its very existence was poisonous.

“I don’t care if you don’t want it. You need it. You’re out of control.”

“Maybe that’s where I’d like to be.”

“You selfish arse,” Lestrade snarled. “Don’t you dare think for one moment that this world revolves around you—”

“Since when have I ever cared what people like _you_ say about me—”

“Grow up!” Lestrade bellowed, grabbing Sherlock by the collar, and the other responded equally violently, pushing the DI backwards into a pile of books by the fireplace. The stack toppled over and the mirror rattled dangerously as the two men collided into the wall, practically tearing into each other’s throats. Hamish bit his lip and moved further away into the kitchen, quietly depositing the lasagna onto a clean spot on the counter.

“Get the fuck out of my house,” Sherlock growled through clenched teeth.

“Not until you turn things around.”

“For the last time—”

“No,” Lestrade hissed, tightening his fist in Sherlock’s shirt and leaning in until they were almost nose to nose. “You listen to me right now. Do you really think wallowing in self-pity would help in any way at all? You’re a wreck. You smoke like a chimney and I know that if I brought another drugs bust into your doorstep I can have you arrested in no time flat. I can have you detained and shoved into a holding cell until you go mad from lack of brain stimuli and beg us to let you out. The only reason why I’m not doing any of that is because there’s somebody else I’m thinking about, a somebody that Mrs. Hudson’s thinking about and Molly’s thinking about and somebody John will definitely think about, even on a hospital bed, and that person is Hamish. You’re a shame to yourself and John and your child, and if you don’t get your act straight right now, so help me god, _I will take your son away_. Am I clear?”

It was a horribly low blow, but it had the desired effect. Sherlock’s face morphed from rage to a flash of desperation and then palpable guilt, frustration, and resignation. He glowered at Lestrade as the two lowered their hands and stepped away from each other.

“I need him,” Sherlock said unexpectedly. “I need both of them.”

“I know,” Lestrade replied, weary. “But don’t force my hand.”

“Take your damn laws and knight in shining armour act and go,” Sherlock sighed. “We’re done here.”

Lestrade nodded, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Right,” he said awkwardly, moving towards the door. “Good night.”

Sherlock didn’t reply; not that Lestrade would have expected him to, but suddenly Hamish was standing by his side, silent as a shadow, and just like he always did before he left, Lestrade reached over and gave the boy a cautious hug. Hamish squeezed back, burying his face into Lestrade’s jacket for a moment before waving goodbye, watching the DI head down the stairs.

221 B was now quiet once more save for the steady ticking of the grandfather clock and leaky tap dripping in the bathroom. Sherlock moved by the window, watching the street for a few seconds before turning to face his son, unnaturally hesitant.

“Did Lestrade bring something for you to eat?”

Hamish looked up and nodded. “Lasagna. It’s got mozzarella and meatballs on top.”

It was their favourite combination on that particular dish and one that John had loudly declared to be an act against the natural order of things. Sherlock allowed a hollow little smile to cross his face for a split second before stepping over the mess in the living room to the kitchen. “Well, grab a plate; we’d better eat it before it gets cold, right?”

Hamish visibly brightened, a little flicker of hope daring to shine in his eyes, and the amount of guilt that Sherlock felt in that moment was staggering. Together, father and son carefully cleaned out a corner of the kitchen table and scooped out sizable portions for their dinner. It was silent, but not uncomfortable, so when the plates were finally clean and night had fallen, Hamish climbed into John’s side of the bed and curled up next to Sherlock, who carefully wrapped an arm around the small boy. The warm orange glow from the streetlamps pouring in through the gap in the curtains covered them like a blanket, and the sounds of distant sirens wailing in the London streets gently lulled them to sleep.

Hopefully, it would be a peaceful night.

* * *

The blankets were shifting, the mattress dipped, and there was a momentary gust of cold air that made the hairs stand up on the back of Hamish’s neck. Then the duvet was tucked around him again and gentle fingers were carding through his hair, brushing the curls back from his face. Lips brushed against his forehead and he distantly heard Sherlock murmur, “I’m sorry, son,” and then his father was gone. The bedroom door closed soundlessly, and then Hamish was bolting upright, disoriented, heart pounding wildly in his chest.

It wasn’t a dream.

Where was his papa going?

The ground was icy cold beneath his bare feet but he knew instinctively which of the floorboards would creak. Tiptoeing around the spots, Hamish crouched by the door and carefully turned the doorknob, praying he wouldn’t make any noise. The door eased open, and through the sliver of space provided for him Hamish could see his father pacing in the living room, dressing gown undone, a cell phone pressed to his ear. Sherlock’s expression was pinched, his lips drawn into a thin, bloodless line, and his hand was clenching and unclenching stressfully. Bemused, Hamish curled closer to the crack in the doorway. Who was his father calling?

The answer came barely a second later as the other end picked up, and a horribly cold feeling of fear suddenly washed over Hamish as Sherlock finally spoke lowly into the mouthpiece.

“Hello, Moriarty.”


	3. Chapter 3

  


  


“Doth mine ears deceive my mind? Is this _Sherlock Holmes_ calling me for _help_?”

Sherlock sneered, his grip on his phone tightening in anger.

“You know why I’m calling.”

“Actually, _no_ , I don’t,” James Moriarty sighed, his breath crackling loudly over the mouthpiece. “I am a very busy man, Sherlock, and contrary to popular belief I’m not always keeping up with whatever drama you’re dishing out in your boring little life. So if you need my help, you’re going to have to be a little more specific.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, seething quietly, and Hamish could barely feel his fingers as he clutched the doorjamb in numb shock. His father was calling his worst enemy, and the poor boy had no idea how to react to that.

“I need you—”

“Ah, yes,” Moriarty interrupted in a blissful tone. “You need me. There it is; that’s the silver lining I’m looking for. You do know how to charm a man, Sherlock, you naughty boy.”

“Enough!” Sherlock snarled with forced quietness, pacing back and forth so rapidly he knocked over a stack of old newspapers. “I need your resources. I need you to find me a doctor.”

“A doctor? Whatever do you need a doctor for; you already live with one— oh, wait!” Moriarty let out a tiny gasp before cooing sarcastically, “You don’t have Johnny boy with you anymore, do you, Sherlock?”

“And you claim that you haven’t been watching our every move.”

Hamish shuddered at the murderous tone in his father’s voice, curling closer to the wall. This wasn’t the first time he’d felt worry about Sherlock’s well-being since John was hospitalized, but this was the first time he’d felt true fear.

“Alright, alright,” Moriarty grumbled, shuffling some papers on his end. “You need another doctor. So what? Why’re you bothering me, of all things? You dearly beloved government-owning brother is more than capable of finding you the best ones in the world.”

“Firstly, I don’t want my brother’s help,” Sherlock snapped. “And secondly, you and I both know that the best won’t ever work in the frankly stifling atmosphere of the government’s labs— I need an underground doctor, one who doesn’t work with boundaries. One who can save John.”

Moriarty was silent on the other end for a moment, but when he spoke again, there was a note of curious admiration in his voice. “You wouldn’t go to your brother for help, but you’d rather risk it all with an internationally wanted criminal who nearly goaded you into jumping off a roof once and strapped a bomb to your beloved. That’s a bit harsh.”

 “Are you helping me or _not_?”

“Very well,” Moriarty groaned. “You’re a slave driver, you are, but I trust you already know the cost of my consulting fee. I expect full payment, even if you are my number one enemy, Sherlock. And just in case your pretty little head can’t figure out why I’m bothering to help you, it’s because you are quite useless without your John, and you’ve practically wasted away. You’re hardly a worthy opponent anymore. I don’t often agree with that Detective Inspector, but he’s right. You’re out of control and you’re practically scaring that poor child living with you.”

“Stop spying on us and stay away from my son.”

“Oh, please,” Moriarty snorted. “Why would I ever bother with a shrimp like that?”

“Good _bye_ ,” Sherlock growled, and then threw his phone away from him sharply, as though burned. Hamish flinched as the device landed on the ground with a ringing clatter, and decided that he’d seen enough. Shrinking back into the shadows, he crawled under the cold sheets of his fathers’ bed with a terrible sense of helplessness clawing at him. John had told him that under no circumstances should he ever seek out James Moriarty because the man was dangerous, reckless and remorseless. His papa had truly gone mad.

For a while, Hamish tossed and turned about on the bed, terrified for his father and equally worried that he’d be caught eavesdropping when Sherlock came back into the room— there was no way he could fool his father into thinking he was asleep— but even when Hamish finally dropped off into an uneasy sleep, Sherlock did not come back.

In fact, Sherlock didn’t return at all that night.

It was a memory that Hamish would forever associate with the feelings of utter relief and heartache for the rest of his life.

* * *

“And on your left, you can see the bones of a giant Mammoth. We call him George. George existed during the Pliocene epoch, which was around 5 million years ago, until the Holocene era, which ended about 4,500 years ago. It’s incredible how _long_ living beings can be preserved by nature’s forces, and how people in the future can see them again!”

The group of middle school kids shuffled around the giant, browned bones of the old mammoth, muttering to themselves and crumpling the field trip guides in their hands. Several of them were running their hands over the model despite multiple signs with DON’T TOUCH underlined in red tacked up all over the display.

The trip to the museum was supposed to be an opportunity for the students to do a bit of research for their upcoming project about the Ice Age, but Hamish could hardly pay attention; he fidgeted, glanced at the doorways, and couldn’t even finish his lunch because his stomach was too busy doing knots and somersaults. It had been nearly a week since Sherlock had called Moriarty, and he’d nursed the foolish hope that his father hadn’t really gone and phoned one of the most dangerous criminal of all time. Sadly, he’d woken up this morning to find Mrs. Hudson in his kitchen making waffles and bearing news that his papa had gone out for an important meeting with a client. Hamish hadn’t been able to concentrate all day because of that— he was too busy desperately praying that his father wasn’t doing something spectacularly stupid.

“Hamish?”

The dark-haired boy jumped as his friend Diane tapped him on the shoulder, her soft face worried. “We’re going into the other room, Hamish.”

“O-oh. Okay.”

“Are you alright? You look pale.”

“I’m fine,” Hamish mumbled, trying to draw his jacket tighter around him.

“Are you sure? My mum says that flu season’s coming up soon. Are you coming down with a bug?”

“I’m fine,” Hamish said, a little louder this time. “Really, Diane.”

The young girl bit her lip. “If you say so,” she said, and Hamish didn’t miss the lingering look she gave him when he wandered away to look at the prehistoric arrowheads on display. Once upon a time Sherlock would’ve been right about him flirting with her while they were in class or supposed to be working, but Hamish had found his interests in anything other than his family slipping away at an alarming rate in the past three months, and he felt terrible for brushing his friends away all the time.

“Alright, class, you guys will have half an hour to explore and make research notes on all the different things you see in this exhibition. Make sure you complete your worksheets because I’ll be collecting them at the end of the day!”

There was a collective groan that went up from the group of children, but Hamish could barely hear them. He was tired of his thoughts chasing themselves around his brain and tricking himself into thinking up crazy scenarios and especially worn out over always thinking that he was seeing his dad was walking around London doing _god-knows-what_.

“Hey, Hamish, isn’t that your dad walking outside?”

Hamish startled as his friend James appeared by his shoulder, looking curiously out of the window by the display case, and to his utter shock yes, that was Sherlock hurrying down the sidewalk with his coat billowing behind him like a cape, face drawn and jaw set. He scrambled to press his face against the glass.

“Where’s he going?” the boy whispered, terrified.

“Hi Mister Holmes!” James waved, oblivious to his friend’s distress. “Aw, he can’t see me. Where is your dad going anyway— Hamish? Hey, Hamish, where’re _you_ going?!”

But the boy was already sprinting out of the museum, his worksheets dropping from his hands and scattering like frightened birds taking flight.

He had to catch his dad.

* * *

The address that Moriarty had given him had, rather disappointingly, not let to some secret underground lair complete with trapdoors and torches and steroid-pumped bodyguards, but it had taken Sherlock to a plain, sterile white building by the factory side of the river. It was perfectly nondescript in the whole block of industrial buildings save for the large SUVs with tinted windows parked by the side doors. Strolling up to the front entrance, the dark-haired man pushed the doors open to reveal a small reception room. There was, however, no secretary behind the dust-covered desk, but two burly men dressed in old jeans and heavy jackets.

So the bodyguard thing had been right after all.

“Who’re you?” the one with a red goatee demanded, stepping forwards.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock replied coldly. “Your boss is expecting me.”

Red Goatee raised an eyebrow, but the other man, a reserved guy with closely cropped brown hair, blocked his friend.

“He’s the one Moriarty’s sending,” he grunted. “Let him through. And you. Straight down the hall, seventh door on your left. No funny business.”

Sherlock flashed Red Goatee a sarcastic little smile that made the man’s eye twitch as he breezed past the bodyguards and through the doors. The hallway was chilly and empty with stark white walls and a spotless interior, much like a typical laboratory. The seventh door on the left had a window with the blinds drawn, and upon Sherlock’s entry (minus a polite knock) revealed a slightly balding man with frameless glasses typing away on a laptop behind a desk and another bodyguard sitting in the couch by the wall. The large man sat up when Sherlock entered suddenly, but the other man simply smiled without looking up and said, “I suppose you’re Sherlock Holmes, then.”

“And I hear you are Doctor Philip Marcus II,” Sherlock replied coolly. “Moriarty said that you’d be able to help me.”

“Indeed,” Dr. Marcus said, carefully removing his glasses as he surveyed Sherlock with a level stare. “It seems that my study in the ‘reawakening’ of coma patients have something to do with your current predicament.”

“So you say,” the detective said. “How can you be so certain of your theories?”

“Well, it’s not big secret that speaking to coma patients, or playing music to them, let’s say, has a positive effect on the speed of their recovery. They are still able to register the events in their surroundings. After an extensive amount of research that has obviously not been approved by the British government I’ve concocted a serum that can help stimulate brain function that will then help reawaken the patient in stages as they gain strength. Think of it as a booster shot, if you will.”

Sherlock smirked dryly. “And I suppose the abundance of research and experiments you’ve done has helped you draw your conclusion?”

Dr. Marcus shrugged a shoulder. “It’s gotten me far enough. And I am the biggest chance you’ve got for Dr. Watson.”

“As much as it saddens me to know that,” Sherlock replied, tucking his hands into his pockets. “I’m afraid I’ll have to go along with this plan of action, though on one condition.”

“Oh? And what would that be?”

“That you experiment on me first. And if I deem the serum fit, I’ll allow you to wake John with it.”

Dr. Marcus let out an indignant scoff. “If _you_ deem it fit? Are you planning on becoming a coma patient anytime soon, Mr. Holmes?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock said offhandedly. “From the research I’ve gathered about your works what you’ve created is nothing more than a particularly strong brand of adrenaline, but simply with slightly less legal materials. Oh, don’t look at me like that, you don’t think the government has been keeping tabs on you?”

“Moriarty said that you refused help from your brother,” Dr. Marcus hissed.

“Yes, well, even if I didn’t go to him for help doesn’t mean I can’t hack into this kind of information on my own,” Sherlock huffed. “If your brain serum is as effective as you claim, I should be feeling no more than a boost I can usually get from a good hit. If not, you’re a deluded fraud.”

Dr. Marcus glared icily at the detective. “How dare you—” he began, but there was a sudden _bang_ and a loud shout.

The doctor scowled. “What’s going on out there?” he hollered.

A moment later, the door flew open to reveal Red Goatee and the other bodyguard dragging a squirming Hamish into the room.

It felt as though somebody had just squeezed all the air out of Sherlock’s lungs.

“I found this runt sneaking in through the hall,” Red Goatee said. “Dunno where he came from.”

Dr. Marcus looked outraged. “This is supposed to be a secure location! How did you get in, boy?”

“One of the side doors was propped open,” Hamish grumbled.

A vein twitched violently in the doctor’s temple. “Which one of your morons left the door open when you went out for a smoke again?!”

The bodyguards shuffled their feet, mumbling and pointing fingers. Dr. Marcus growled.

“Get rid of him,” he snarled, and that shook Sherlock out of his momentary bout of shock.

“No!” he said harshly, drawing all eyes on him. “This boy is with me.”

“What?” the bodyguard snarled, but Dr. Marcus suddenly raised a hand, a cruel smile crossing his face.

“Oh dear oh dear,” the doctor murmured. “This wouldn’t be your son, would it, Sherlock Holmes? What a kind, caring boy you have, to have chased his father down to the edge of the city to make sure he’s safe.”

“Let go of him,” Sherlock growled lowly.

“Or what?”

Tilting his chin up defiantly, Sherlock gestured to himself. “You’ll lose a precious lab experiment.”

Dr. Marcus paused, frowning. “I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t tell me that me being a lab rat for your brain serum wouldn’t be an exciting prospect,” Sherlock said calmly. “You know of my intelligence and of all things for you to test your product out on, mine is optimal. Wouldn’t you like to know how an adrenaline-filled brain like mine would function?”

The man pursed his lips, clearly thinking.

“If you harm a hair on my son’s head, you can also kiss that thought goodbye.”

“Very well,” Dr. Marcus sighed, gesturing to the bodyguards. They let go of Hamish, and the young boy darted forwards to his father. Sherlock instantly wrapped his arms around his son tightly, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

“On that note, I’ll take my leave,” the detective said coolly. “I’ll be in touch, doctor.”

“As will I, Mr. Holmes,” Dr. Marcus said stiffly, and with those words father and son left the building without a single glance back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus:  
> “Doth mine ears deceive my mind? Is this Sherlock Holmes calling me for help?”
> 
> “Bitch it might be”
> 
> (I’m so hilarious.)
> 
> I’m also pretending Sherlock never jumped off St. Bart’s in this story.
> 
> Since the Sherlock verse of this fic is almost over, and we’re fast approaching the Star Trek: Into Darkness part, can you guess why I named the doctor Phillip Marcus II?


End file.
